


Give Me Something To Believe In

by dsa_archivist



Category: due South
Genre: Drama, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-04-15
Updated: 1999-04-15
Packaged: 2018-11-11 01:50:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11138802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dsa_archivist/pseuds/dsa_archivist
Summary: Note from Speranza, the archivist: this story was once archived atDue South Archive. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I tried to reach out to all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address onDue South Archive collection profile.





	Give Me Something To Believe In

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Speranza, the archivist: this story was once archived at [Due South Archive](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Due_South_Archive). To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I tried to reach out to all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Due South Archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/duesoutharchive).

  
Give Me Something To Believe In

# GIVE ME SOMETHING TO BELIEVE IN
    
    
    by Katrina Bowen
    
    A woman's gulping, heartrending sobs and the murmur of police work were
    the only sounds that disturbed the still air.  Detective Ray Vecchio
    stood over the two bodies and slowly rubbed the back of his neck.  John
    and Miriam Sanchez had died in the old Victorian home they had so painstakingly
    restored and decorated, right on the overstuffed couch in front of the
    stone fireplace.  They had been poisoned; he'd have to wait for the medical
    examiner's report, but it looked to have been a relatively quick and
    painless death.  Whoever had killed them had presumably wanted them dead,
    but didn't want them to suffer.  A uniformed officer finished dusting
    the three wine glasses and the bottle for prints.  She looked up in silent
    inquiry and Ray waved for her to take them down to the crime lab. 
    
    He sighed and walked over to the cluster of photographs on a side table.
    The Sanchezes hadn't had children of their own, but there were many pictures
    of children, probably nieces and nephews.  Ray smiled a bit ruefully
    to himself.  He knew all about nieces and nephews.  One picture caught
    his interest, of the Sanchezes and a girl in a white graduation gown.
    She stood out sharply in contrast to the adults.  While John and Miriam
    had shared smooth, dark features, the girl had a mass of bright red curls
    falling down her back, and  even in the slightly overexposed photo, Ray
    could see the scattering of freckles across her face.  She had her arms
    around John and Miriam, and all three looked blissfully happy. 
    
    Ray picked up the photograph and reluctantly walked into the kitchen.
    An elderly woman wearing a bright purple nylon exercise suit sat in a
    chair, her sobs currently muffled by a wad of damp tissues.  He set the
    photo on the table and took the chair next to her.  "How are you feeling,
    Mrs. Weston?" he asked gently.
    
    "It was just such a shock," she wavered.  "I came in through the kitchen
    like I always do on Wednesday morning.  Miriam and I power walk
    together, you know."  Ray nodded.  "Well, it was just so strange that
    she wasn't here.  She's always so punctual ..." the sobs started again.
    "I mean, she was."  To Ray's relief, she controlled herself.  "So I called,
    and no one answered, and I went into the living room.  And there they
    were." 
    
    "And you told Officer Jones that you didn't think anything had been stolen?"
    
    "That's right.  There are some quite valuable paintings, and of course
    the television and VCR and stereo are still here."  She frowned.  "There
    is something, though.  It may not be important ..."
    
    "Please, anything you can tell me would help."  Ray sat forward eagerly.
    
    "Well, John was extremely tidy about his paperwork, but when I was in
    the living room, I saw papers scattered all over the coffee table.  Usually
    he keeps things like that in his den."  She sniffed again.  "They were
    so proud of their house."
    
    Ray nodded.  It was good place to start.  "Thank you, ma'am.  That was
    very observant of you."  He picked up the photograph and handed it to
    her. "Could you tell me if you recognize this girl?"
    
    "Oh, yes, of course.  This is Theodora Lonigan.  Her parents died when
    she was only -- sixteen?  Maybe fifteen.  No, I think sixteen.  It was
    ten years ago or so.  At any rate, John and Miriam were good friends
    of her parents, and they had themselves declared her guardians so she
    could finish school here.  She adored them, and they felt the same way
    about her.  They couldn't have children of their own, you know."
    
    "And do they still stay in contact?"  Ray didn't like the theory he was
    forming, but he didn't have a better one.
    
    "Oh, yes.  In fact, they told me once that they were going to leave this
    house to her.  Oh, and she's supposed to be in town sometime soon." 
    
    Motive and opportunity?  Ray stood up.  "You've been a great help, Mrs.
    Weston.  Officer Jones is going to talk to you again, and I'd like you
    to tell him everything you just told me, all right?"  He smiled down
    at her and went back to the living room to look at those papers.
    
    ****************************************************************************
    
    Constable Benton Fraser got into the Riviera.  "Good afternoon, Ray."
    He looked in the back seat as Diefenbaker cautiously settled himself
    next to a large, bulky object.  "Are you aware that there is a very large
    floor lamp in your car?"
    
    "Yep.  Did the dragon lady fill you in on the case?"  Ray pulled away
    from the curb without paying attention to his rearview mirror, the angry
    honking and swearing behind him, or Ben's involuntary cringe.
    
    "Well, in a way.  Inspector Thatcher said that as Mr. Sanchez was an
    employee of a Canadian firm, it would be a good idea --" He closed his
    eyes for a second as Ray accelerated to make it through a yellow light.
    He continued deliberately, "She said it would be a good idea if I were
    present when you went to his offices."
    
    "Actually, it's a multi-national chemical research company.  But yeah,
    the head offices are in Ottawa, so I guess that counts as Canadian."
    Ray looked over at Ben and raised his eyebrows skeptically.  "I suppose
    she also told you to make sure that the murderer was an American?"
    
    "Oh, no.  No.  Nothing like that.  Well, she did say something along
    the lines that Mr. Henry Ferguson, the gentleman in charge of LemTech's
    American operations, has some important political connections, but I'm
    sure she wasn't in any way suggesting that I -- or you -- should prejudice
    our investigation in light of that fact."  He frowned slightly, watching
    the passing streets.  "Ah, Ray, is there a particular reason we're not
    going to LemTech's offices?"
    
    "Yeah."  He gestured toward the lamp.  "Maria's kids broke that last
    week trying to play jai alai in the living room.  Ma had it fixed, and
    she wants it back in time for her bridge group tonight.  So --"
    
    "So we're going to your house first."
    
    "That's right."
    
    Ben thought.  "Why were they playing jai alai?"
    
    Ray sighed and shrugged.  "Cable TV.  What are you gonna do?"  He stopped
    at a red light and looked back at Dief.  "You'd better watch your back,
    or they're likely to use you as a polo pony again."  Dief whined and
    crawled on the car floor.
    
    ****************************************************************************
    
    "Hi, Ma."  Ray kept hold of the lamp, but leaned over to give his mother
    a quick kiss.  "You want this in the same place?"
    
    "Thank you, Ray."  She smiled after him as he walked into the living
    room, skillfully dodging the group of children bouncing off the walls.
    "I have some coffee in the kitchen, Benton.  Would you like a cup?"
    
    "Thank you kindly, ma'am."  They walked into the kitchen.  Mrs. Vecchio
    asked, "Where's that sweet dog of yours?"
    
    "Well, I'm afraid he's been feeling a bit nervous lately, and I thought
    it might be better if he stayed in the car."  It had actually been Dief's
    idea; as far as Ben knew, the wolf was still laying low.
    
    "You mean he's terrified of the children," she said teasingly.
    
    "Oh, that might be overstating the case.  I think it was more a matter
    of discretion being the better part of valor."  Ben was looking around
    a bit nervously himself, and Mrs. Vecchio smiled to herself.
    
    "Frannie isn't here right now, Benton."  She turned quickly to the coffee
    pot on seeing the way Ben relaxed, and her smile widened in spite of
    herself.  She considered telling the poor boy about the little talk she'd
    had with Francesca, but decided not to get any more involved -- at least
    for the moment.  After all, she still wasn't sure she had really gotten
    through.  She set the coffee and a plate of cookies in front of Ben.
    
    They both started at an unearthly shriek coming from the living room.
    Ray was already halfway in the kitchen, and he raised his hands in a
    warning- off gesture.  "I am *not* getting involved in that, Ma.  I already
    talked to them about contact sports in the house."
    
    "Some help you are."  But she patted his cheek as she went to play referee
    for the third time in an hour.
    
    Ray walked over to the refrigerator.  "You want something, Benny?"  Ben
    shook his head, indicating the cookies in front of him.  He took a drink
    of his coffee as Ray rummaged for something to eat.
    
    As he was closing the door, two little boys walked in.  The taller one
    asked, "Could you pour me some grape juice, Uncle Ray?"
    
    Ray opened the door and peered inside again.  "Ahhh ... no.  We have
    orange or apple juice.  Take your pick."
    
    The boy sighed gustily and threw his arms to the sky, like an Old Testament
    prophet who couldn't understand why God would never take his advice on
    the proper running of the universe.  "Could my life be any worse?" he
    demanded sorrowfully as he walked back to the living room. 
    
    "Probably not,"  Ray agreed sympathetically.  Ben carefully kept a straight
    face; he had always suspected the whining was simply a genetic
    personality trait rather than genuine ill nature, but he was rather pleased
    to have his guess confirmed. Ray looked at the other boy.  "How about
    you?" 
    
    The child thought it over for a few seconds.  "I like orange juice."
    
    "Here you go, then."  Ray handed him a glass.  He walked over and grabbed
    a handful of cookies.  "You done yet?"
    
    Ben stood, rinsed his coffee cup and put it in the dishwasher.  As he
    and Ray walked out, he said, "I recognized Maria's youngest son, but
    who was the other boy?"
    
    "Him?"  Ray shrugged casually.  "I have no idea."  Seeing the surprised
    question in Ben's bright blue eyes, he grinned.  "Around here, Fraser,
    you'd be amazed how much asking too many questions can complicate your
    life."  They both winced at a loud crash that came from the interior
    of the house -- it was, Ben decided, not unlike the sound a heavy floor
    lamp would make if knocked through a window.  Ray covered his eyes and
    groaned.  "Ah, jeez.  I told Ma before -- don't let them watch movies
    about the Middle Ages."
    
    Ben thought for a second, and he hazarded a guess -- "Jousting?"
    
    "Yeah.  Let's get out of here before we get roped into picking up the
    mess."  He walked out the door without looking back.  Ben hesitated,
    his every instinct screaming at him to find a dustpan and help clean
    up.  But, reflecting on discretion and valor, not to mention Mrs. Vecchio's
    scolding voice, he followed Ray, softly closing the door behind him.
    
    ****************************************************************************
    
    "So you feel Miss Lonigan is the most likely suspect?"  Ben removed his
    hat as he and Ray entered the elevators at LemTech's headquarters.  Dief
    sat between them, still looking disgruntled; the young security guard
    had been reluctant to let him in, backing down only when Ray convinced
    him that the wolf was, in fact, a highly trained police animal, skilled
    at sniffing out electronic surveillance devices.  Ben privately wondered
    whether it had been Ray's unceasing, confusing flow of words or Dief's
    indignant growls that had finally turned the tide.
    
    Ray leaned against the elevator wall and folded his arms across his chest.
    "Yeah, unless we find something at Sanchez's office.  She's getting the
    house, and people have killed for a whole lot less.  Besides, her name
    turned up on a passenger list at the airport, so she would have been
    in town when they died."  He trailed off, staring past the changing numbers
    in front of him.
    
    Ben waited a few seconds before he stepped into Ray's thoughts.  "But
    you feel she had no motive to kill the Sanchezes."  It was something
    less than a question.  He continued into the silence,  "After all, if
    what Mrs. Weston said was correct, she was devoted to her foster parents."
    
    Nodding absently, Ray said, "Yeah, the other neighbors confirmed that."
    He thought to himself, "But loving someone doesn't mean you won't hurt
    them."  He was remembering the horrible, wounding incident with Victoria,
    but he would have sooner died than brought it up.  He realized Ben was
    looking at him, the beginnings of concern on his face, and he was relieved
    when the elevator doors opened on the eighth floor.  "It's show time."
    He led the way to the receptionist's desk.
    
    They followed her down a hallway, Dief reluctantly remaining by the desk.
    The hall was painted a discreet, wealthy-looking slate blue.  Ben looked
    down; the carpet was thick, lush, and a perfect match to the walls. 
    It was, he reflected, an odd choice for a place of business -- it held
    every single footprint.  He brought his gaze front and center as the
    receptionist knocked at a walnut door.  Inside, a lean, elegantly dressed
    man turned from the window.  He opened his mouth to greet them, but Ray
    spoke first. 
    
    "Mr. Ferguson?  Detective Ray Vecchio, Chicago P.D."  He flipped out
    his credentials so Ferguson could see them.  He nodded toward Ben.
    "Constable Benton Fraser, R.C.M.P.  I assume you've been informed about
    your colleague's murder?"  There was a time when Ben would have been
    taken aback by his friend's brusque manner, but he had since learned
    that it was a deliberate, and surprisingly effective, interrogation technique.
    
    It seemed to be working on Ferguson.  His demeanor didn't alter, but
    he blinked rapidly.  "Have you established that it was murder?"
    
    "Well, you have a husband and wife who drop dead sitting on their couch
    within a few seconds of each other.  That's a pretty good indication
    of murder," Ray said judiciously.
    
    Ferguson sat down behind his desk.  He moved a folded newspaper
    slightly to one side before he spoke.  "Have you ruled out the possibility
    of suicide? I dislike speaking about them this way, but I believe that
    John and Miriam were having problems in their marriage."
    
    Ray and Ben looked at each other, apparently considering the idea; then
    they simultaneously turned back to Ferguson.  Ben spoke first.  "Well,
    sir, as I understand Det. Vecchio's investigation of the crime scene,
    there was no sign of a suicide note."
    
    Ray shook his head mournfully.  "Not a sign."
    
    "Furthermore, the neighbors all report that the Sanchezes had what seemed
    to be a very happy marriage."
    
    Ray nodded.  "Very happy."
    
    "There's also the fact that despite the fact that the Sanchezes died
    by poison, no container for the poison has yet been found."
    
    Ray shook his head again.  "No trace of it."
    
    By now, Ferguson was looking between the two men standing in front of
    his desk like a spectator at a ping-pong match being played with hand
    grenades.  When he spoke, his voice was controlled, but perceptibly more
    tense.  "So can I assume that you're here on the assumption that I know
    who killed John?"
    
    "Oh, no, no."  Ray smiled innocently.  "Just routine investigation. 
    You'd be amazed how few murders turn out to be committed by strangers.
    That leaves us with family and friends  -- oh, and business partners."
    
    "That may be true, but I'm afraid I can't help you find any suspects."
    Ferguson stood in an attempt to show that the interview was over.  "I'm
    sure no one here would have had a reason to kill John.  I'm sorry I can't
    be of any more help to you, but I do have appointments that must be kept."
    He started to usher them out.
    
    "And Miriam Sanchez, of course."  Ferguson stopped dead at Ray's
    conversational comment.  "She's dead too."  He looked at Ferguson's suddenly
    pale face.  "Well, we don't want to take up any more of your valuable
    time, Mr. Ferguson.  We'll just go examine Mr. Sanchez's office now.
    Thanks for all your help."  He turned to go.
    
    "Just a moment, please."  Ben walked over to the wall and closely examined
    an exquisite vase on a stone pedestal.  "This is a fine piece. sir."
    He knelt and examined the pedestal's base.  "And this is marble, isn't
    it?" 
    
    "Yes, but ..." Ferguson trailed off, obviously confused.  So was Ray,
    but he had learned to hide it better.
    
    "Ah.  Thank you, I thought it was.  Good day, sir."  He preceded Ray
    out the door.
    
    They walked back down the hall, reading name plates until they found
    Sanchez's office.  As the door closed behind them, Ray said, "He's involved
    somehow."
    
    "I agree, Ray."  Ben looked in the wastebasket, but it was empty.  "He
    was far too eager to steer us to the assumption that the Sanchezes committed
    suicide.  'I'm sorry to hear about my colleague's death, and by the way,
    he and his wife weren't getting along.'  It was hardly subtle."  He was
    closely examining the carpet.
    
    "Yeah.  He's one of those guys who thinks he's a lot smarter than he
    really is."  Ray sat down at the desk and started looking through drawers.
    
    Ben looked up in surprise.  "How do you come to that conclusion?" 
    
    "The crossword puzzle on his desk."  He grinned on seeing Ben's lack
    of comprehension -- it wasn't often he picked up on clues that his friend
    missed.  "He was doing it in ink, but he had scratched out most of the
    answers and written over them.   I counted at least two dozen times he'd
    done it.  I know I'd have given up after three or four, or at least used
    a pencil, but a guy like this wouldn't want to admit he couldn't figure
    it out." 
    
    "I see."  Ben nodded appreciatively.  "Well done, Ray."  He walked over
    to the desk.  "Have you found anything here?"
    
    "Nothing that makes much sense to me."  Ray picked up a blank notepad
    and held it to the light.  "Jackpot," he breathed.  He grabbed a pencil
    from the holder on the desk and lightly rubbed it over the paper's surface.
    Faint words, imprints from the previous note, gradually came to light.
    Ray looked at them and sighed.
    
    "What does it say?"  Ben cocked his head, trying to make sense of it.
    
    Ray shook his head.  "I told you about all those papers that were on
    the table at Sanchez's house?  Well, what I didn't tell you was that
    he had lousy handwriting.  Okay.  This here is a time.  Eight o'clock?"
    
    "No, I think that's a six."
    
    "Okay, six o'clock.  Now what's this second part?"  He handed over the
    piece of paper.
    
    Ben squinted uncertainly.  "The pig's aroma can -- something?  Well,
    that doesn't make any sense at all, Ray."  He handed it back. "But I
    think the last part is a man's name -- Todd, I believe."
    
    "Figaro's!  Figaro McKenna!"  Seeing Ben's blank look, he explained.
    "It's an Irish bar downtown.  They have pretty good bands on weekends."
    
    "You'll have to take me there sometime.  So.  Mr. Sanchez was supposed
    to go to Figaro McKenna's at six o'clock tonight -- unless, of course,
    the note was in reference to yesterday -- to meet a man named Todd, 
    who has small feet for a man, and who was in the office sometime after
    the cleaning crew left last night and before the start of business this
    morning." 
    
    "Right.  What?"  Ray frowned.  "Where do you get the feet, Benny?" 
    
    "From footprints, Ray."  He indicated the floor.  "A person wearing tennis
    shoes has walked all over this carpet.  There are no marks from other
    feet, leading me to assume that someone was here after hours.  Incidentally,
    I found identical prints in Mr. Ferguson's office.  He didn't strike
    me as the sort of person who would allow someone wearing tennis shoes
    in his office."
    
    "So that's what you saw by the vase."  Ray stood.  "Well, it's 4:30 now.
    We have time to check in at the precinct before we go to the bar."  He
    paused.  "How did you know that we hadn't found any container for the
    poison?  I never told you that."
    
    "If you had found one, Ray, you would have told me.  There's one other
    thing."
    
    "Yeah, Benny?"
    
    "Is there such a thing as a dog that can sense electronic equipment?"
    As they left, Ben quietly filled Ray in on the reason he asked.  Ray
    shook his head.  "That's interesting, Fraser.  Real interesting ..."
    
    ****************************************************************************
    
    Figaro McKenna's was a neighborhood bar that neatly trod the line between
    comfort and shabbiness.  It seemed more set up for conversation than
    serious drinking, Ben reflected, and it occurred to him that the seeming
    disarray might have been a deliberate ploy to keep the casual barhoppers
    away.  Somewhere inside, a jukebox was playing Elvis's "Heartbreak Hotel."
    Assuming that animals were not welcome, he had prevailed upon Dief to
    stay in the car; the wolf had done so, but not with the greatest of grace.
    He was getting tired of being left behind. 
    
    As Ray and Ben waited for their eyes to adjust to the dimmer light inside,
    the jukebox changed records.  Now the bar was filled with an unearthly
    keening.  Ray winced.  "They've got to be kidding.  Bagpipes?"
    
    "Well, actually, Ray, seeing as this is an Irish bar, they're more likely
    to be uilleann pipes."  Ray looked at him blankly.  "Rather than blowing
    into a mouthpiece, you see, they operate on much the same principle as
    a bellows."  He would have gone on, but Ray started walking further into
    the bar, looking at the few patrons sitting at the counter or at tables.
    
    "Why not just stick an air compressor up a cat's ass?  It couldn't sound
    much worse."
    
    "Ray, that's disgusting."  Ben followed him.
    
    "That's the point I was trying to make."  He stopped short.  "Jesus Christ."
    
    "Where?"  Ben looked around and Ray gave him a filthy look.  He slowly
    walked toward a woman sitting with her back to them, her thick red curls
    doing their best to escape from what had probably been, much earlier
    in the day, a tidy French braid.  She was flipping idly through a glossy
    fashion magazine and drinking a club soda.  She looked up in mild interest
    as Ray stopped in front of her, becoming obviously more interested as
    she saw Ben, who was once again looking at the ground.
    
    "Theodora Lonigan?"  Ray took out his ID and identified himself and Fraser.
    Before the woman could speak, Ben said, "Excuse me, miss, but you have
    unusually large feet for a woman."
    
    She stared for a few moments, then looked at Ray.  "Top ten Mountie pickup
    lines?"  She ran her eyes more carefully over Ben and added playfully,
    "Not that it would take much."  Ben flushed a deep and lovely shade of
    crimson.
    
    Ray didn't have the time or patience to put up with yet another woman
    fruitlessly flirting with the Mountie.  He said, "Is there a place we
    can speak privately?"
    
    The bartender, a shambling, amiable-looking bear of a man, came over
    to her table.  "Are these guys bothering you, Tada?"  He frowned and
    tried to look menacing.  Ben straightened as he heard the nickname.
    
    Theodora shook her head slowly, looking from Ray to Ben.  She had picked
    up on the seriousness of the two men, and her light-hearted demeanor
    was gone.  "No.  No, they're not bothering me."  She looked at the bartender.
    "Okay if we use the back room, Timmy?"  At his nod, she wordlessly gestured
    for Ben and Ray to follow her.  She led the way to a small, clean room
    apparently used for poker games.  As Ray closed the door, she folded
    her arms and tried to look tall and authoritative.  "All right, what's
    going on?"
    
    "Perhaps you should sit down, miss."  Ben tried to steer her into a seat.
    
    She shook her head stubbornly.  "Perhaps you two should tell me what
    all this is about right now."
    
    "Have you made any attempt to contact John and Miriam Sanchez since your
    arrival in Chicago?"  Ray was sure by this time that Theodora hadn't
    had any part in the murders, but that didn't make this conversation any
    easier for him.
    
    Theodora went pale beneath her freckles, and she carefully lowered herself
    into one of the upholstered chairs against the wall.  "I had supper there
    last night, about seven.  Then I left to take care of -- of some business."
    She gripped the chair arms, her knuckles white.  "Something happened,
    didn't it?" she asked in a low, toneless voice.
    
    Ray pinched the bridge of his nose.  The medical examiner had placed
    the deaths at between ten and eleven the previous night which, if she
    was telling the truth, eliminated her as a suspect.  "I'm afraid we have
    some very bad news."  As quickly and as painlessly as possible, he told
    her of her foster parents' deaths.
    
    As he spoke, Theodora's face grew stiff and even whiter.  Ben went quickly
    to the wet bar in the corner and brought back a glass of water.  He pried
    one of her hands off the chair, put the glass in it and sat down beside
    her.  Theodora shakily raised the glass to her lips and gulped half of
    it down.  When she finally spoke, her voice was strained.
    
    "My God, my God.  Miriam told us to just go to the police, but John and
    I thought we should get some evidence first."  She drew a hand over her
    face.  Her eyes closed, she dully told Ben and Ray the story.
    
    "John found out that Ferguson, his partner, was involved in the production
    of chemical weapons.  He knew he had to stop it, but if there wasn't
    any evidence, Ferguson could cover his tracks and deny the whole thing.
    Well, he called me to ask what he should do."  Theodora looked up at
    Ben and Ray to make sure they were still listening.  She shouldn't have
    worried; they were both riveted.  She continued, "I'm a reporter -- okay,
    an investigative journalist.  I know a little bit about listening devices
    and getting dirt on people.  So, after I left last night, I went to LemTech's
    offices and let myself in with John's security clearance.  I put a bug
    in Ferguson's office and the receiver in John's.  But I couldn't find
    any incriminating papers in either office."
    
    Ben broke in gently.  "And I believe I can fill in what happened that
    night. Ferguson knew he was suspected, so he went to the Sanchezes' house
    to see if there was any information there.  When they wouldn't tell him
    anything --" he broke off, unwilling to cause any more pain.
    
    "He poisoned them,"  Theodora finished for him.  She pushed herself out
    of the chair and started pacing.  "Well, he might have killed them, but
    it's my fault.  I should have said no, I should have listened to Miriam."
    She stopped and put her hands over her eyes; but when she lowered them,
    there were no tears.  Only fury and self-recrimination. "Well, I'm damned
    if he's going to get away with this."  She went back to her chair.
    
    Ray was still putting the pieces together.  "You don't drink, do you?"
    
    Theodora shook her head.  "You know how my parents died?  They got plastered
    on mint juleps at a Kentucky Derby party and drove over an embankment.
    I've never even had a beer."
    
    "Then the third wine glass would definitely belong to Ferguson."  Ray
    looked at Ben.  "If he's as careless as we decided he is, he probably
    left his fingerprints all over it."
    
    Ben nodded.  He turned his eyes to Theodora.  "We found a note at Mr.
    Sanchez's office.  We thought it said he was meeting someone named Todd,
    but it referred to you, didn't it?  The bartender called you --?" 
    
    "Tada.  I could never say Theodora as a kid, and it just stuck."  She
    laughed a little hysterically.  "Even if Ferguson did find any papers
    at the house, he never would have have been able to read them.  John
    has the worst handwriting in the world ..."  She trailed off, obviously
    thinking that her foster father no longer had anything in the present
    tense.
    
    Ray broke into her thoughts.  "Do you think there's anything on the tapes
    at the office?"
    
    Tada laughed bitterly.  "There'd better be.  I think he's meeting his
    buyer at the offices tonight."
    
    ****************************************************************************
    
    "Okay."  Ray turned back to Tada.  They were back at LemTech's offices,
    and she had used the numbers Sanchez had given her to override the security
    systems.  "I've called for backup, and I want you to stay here and wait
    for them."  Ben was already looking carefully around the corner, and
    Diefenbaker, finally liberated from the Riv, was beside him.
    
    "Are you out of your mind?" she hissed.  "I'm going to nail this bastard,
    and I'm going to do it in person!"
    
    "The hell you are!" Ray hissed back.  "There are probably some
    dangerous guys in here to worry about, and we don't need to worry about
    you, too."  When she started to object, he went on, "Fraser and I are
    going upstairs and we're going to get the tape.  We don't need an amateur
    tagging along.  Promise me you'll stay here."  He glared at her.
    
    "Oh, all *right,*" Tada huffed.  She leaned against the Riv and spread
    her hands.  "See?  I'm staying."
    
    Ray glared at her and joined Ben and Dief, and they silently entered
    the stairwell.  They made it to the fifth floor before they heard voices.
    Ray looked at Ben.  "Two?" he whispered.
    
    "I believe so."  They waited until the voices separated; then they each
    followed one.  Ben dispatched his by simply walking around a corner and
    coming face to face with the gunman.  "Pardon me," he said politely.
    As the man gaped in disbelief, Ben neatly punched him the face, dragging
    the unconscious body to a closet.
    
    Ray's technique was somewhat different.  Silently, he followed his target
    and tapped him on the shoulder.  He ducked the thug's wild swing, and
    kicked him hard in the groin.   Ben came up and said, "Ray, that looks
    extremely painful."
    
    "Well, that's the point, Benny."  The thug was still writhing on the
    floor, trying to remember how to breathe.  Ben and Ray each took one
    of his arms, and they carried him quickly to the closet with the other
    gunman and tossed him inside.  "Okay, let's go."  They both turned at
    mournful whine. 
    
    Dief was sitting apologetically in the middle of the floor; a third man
    was holding a gun to the wolf's head.  He said, "One wrong move and the
    wolf gets it!"  Before either Ben or Ray could do anything, however,
    a shadowy figure loomed behind him.  A baseball bat came down on his
    head with a hollow thud, and he collapsed.
    
    Tada stood there grinning.  "I picked this up from the staff lounge --
    they keep equipment for the company baseball team there."  Seeing Ben
    and Ray still gaping at her, she said helpfully, "My school won the division
    softball championship my senior year.  Looks like I haven't lost my touch,
    huh?"  She smiled proudly.
    
    Ray finally unparalyzed himself.  He stepped over the unconscious man
    and dragged Tada over to where Ben was still standing.  Diefenbaker followed
    sheepishly, insomuch as a wolf can be said to look sheepish. "You promised
    us you'd stay with the car!"  Ray barely kept himself from yelling.
    
    Tada snorted.  "And you believed me?  I'd have expected that from him
    --" she jerked her head toward Ben, who was busily lecturing Diefenbaker
    -- "but not you, Vecchio.  Come on -- we can probably still catch Ferguson."
    She led the way back to the stairwell.
    
    "I don't believe this.  Come on, Benny."  Ray followed her, still muttering
    under his breath about reporters and baseball players in general.  Ben
    and Dief brought up the rear, each keeping his own counsel.
    
    ****************************************************************************
    
    Several days had passed.  Ben stood in the cemetery, unwilling to interrupt.
    He had been sure he would find Tada here, but he wanted to give her some
    time alone before passing along Ray's message.
    
    Ferguson had been gone when they got to the office, but the listening
    device had done its work well.  The tape gave them Ferguson's clearly
    stated confession to the murders of John and Miriam Sanchez, as well
    as a full accounting of his side trade in chemical weapons.  The Chicago
    police had arrested Henry Ferguson and his partner in crime at O'Hare
    just as they had been boarding a plane for the Caribbean.  Ferguson had
    not gone quietly -- even standing half the terminal away, Ben and Ray
    had heard him threatening to call down the wrath of several members of
    the Canadian parliament.  Ray had driven Tada to her hotel, and dropped
    her off without her saying a word.  She hadn't spoken since she had seen
    Ferguson being led away.
    
    Then, all the way to Ben's apartment, Ray had teased his friend about
    his habit of ticking off members of the Canadian government.  In fact,
    this morning Ben had found a package on his desk at the consulate.  It
    was a Spanish to English dictionary, and there was a note on the inside
    front cover from Ray.  All it said was, "Keep it up, and you'll wind
    up in Mexico yet."  Judging by the way Inspector Thatcher had ignored
    him this morning, Ben ruefully reflected that it was a definite possibility.
    
    Ben brought himself to the present as Tada left the fresh graves and
    walked up to him.  She still didn't say a word, and Ben fell into step
    with her as she aimlessly walked down the flower-lined path.  Just as
    he was deciding how to break the silence, she spoke.
    
    "Anyone can lose one set of parents, but to lose two looks like
    carelessness, doesn't it?"
    
    Ben stopped and looked down her.  "I don't think paraphrasing Oscar Wilde
    is really the proper way to deal with this."  More gently, he added,
    "Ray called me this morning.  Ferguson and his partner won't be able
    to get out of this, thanks to the tape.  Since it was done with Mr. Sanchez's
    permission, I'm told that the recording is legally admissable."  The
    permission had indeed been among the papers on the coffee table.  As
    Tada had predicted, however, Ferguson had been unable to read it.  In
    fact, it had taken the police cryptologist the better part of a day to
    make sense of the document.
    
    Tada sighed and sat on a nearby bench.  Ben followed and sat beside her.
    "I guess that should help, but it doesn't."  A rising wind blew her hair
    into her face, and she absently pushed it back.  "I should have handled
    it differently.  If I had, they'd still be alive."
    
    "Perhaps.  But then again, it's possible Ferguson would have had you
    killed as well, and then he would never have been caught."  Tada
    shrugged and was silent.  Ben continued.  "My father always told me that
    there's no way to avoid making mistakes.  All you can do is acknowledge
    what you do wrong, do whatever it takes to make amends, and try to help
    others avoid making the same mistake you did."
    
    She considered that for a moment.  "You know what my father always told
    me?"
    
    "No.  What?"
    
    "Never bet on a gray horse."  Seeing Ben's blank look, she shrugged again.
    "I guess that's not exactly relevant, is it?"  Looking at each other,
    they started to laugh.  Tada rubbed her fingers over her temples and
    abruptly blurted, "I just realized, I don't have a home anymore." 
    
    "The Sanchezes left you their house.  They considered you their
    daughter."
    
    "And now they're gone.  They were the only stability I'd ever known.
    What am I going to do without them?  I mean, I really don't have anything
    left to believe in."
    
    Ben rose and extended his hand to Tada.  Uncertainly, she took it and
    stood in front of him.  Ben told her firmly, "You're going to do what
    I did when my father died.  You're going to find something new to believe
    in. You're going to invite new people into your life, and you're going
    to become a part of *their* lives."  He offered her his arm and led her
    down the path out of the cemetery.  "Because the only alternative is
    not living, isn't it?" 
    
    ****************************************************************************
    Credits, attributions, request for feedback and thanks.  No Mounties
    were harmed in the writing of this story.  (And before I get any outraged
    comments -- the air compressor line came from my brother.  I *like* bagpipes.
    It's cats I'm not crazy about. :) -- kb)
    


End file.
